Jasmine
|-|revamp!!= ok so its not really a revamp but im gonna be rewriting huge chunks of it that i don’t like,,,, seb’s critique: Jasmine’s storyline throughout the page is compelling, pieces of a damaged mind breaking others along the way. The use of her occupation and the format of her pages is misleading, as the prompt suggested! The prose of this page was enthralling to read, and less morbid than the direct killing methods of other pages, but just as sickening. Wonderfully written. If I could make recommendations for any future revisions, I’d give her her own therapist, due to the rule therapists shouldn’t share their personal information with clients, but also it’d add more depth to her interpersonal relationships as of currently!!! If you were to continue editing this page, I’d love to see how she behaves outside of her occupations! |-|old=invisible murderers contest!! mature!! please do not read if you’re sensitive to mentions of self-harm, mental instability, or suicide!! thank you^^ appearance A purple SeaWing nervously thumbs through the brochure-like paper. He trembles slightly, the silence unnerving him. Well, it really isn't silence, with the quiet instrumental music in the background and the receptionist's talon scratching on the paper he's reading, but it feels silent to him. He's jumpy, and silence is never a good sign. He makes himself focus on the paper in front of him. Smiling dragons grin on the cover. Pictures of various therapists and their education fill up the inside. He skims the entire thing before going back and reading it from the beginning. The first one's a SandWing, tan scales speckled with butter yellow. His teeth look too perfect. The SeaWing barely glances at his bio. He reads past various therapists until he finds an IceWing. Her name's Jasmine. He reads and rereads her bio, although he's already skimmed it enough times to memorize it before coming into the building. She's the therapist his doctor recommended. It takes more strength to reach out then it does to fight, it reads. He can't help but feel that it's just spewing random motivation. He's just beginning to read about her degrees and achievements (degree in psychology, it reads. specializes in war cases) as the door opens. A SandWing steps out. His cold and polished expression scares the SeaWing, and he shrinks to try and hide himself from this SandWing's brutal gaze. But the SandWing's gone soon enough, and the receptionist smiles at him and nods, signalling for him to go through the door that the SandWing just exited from. He swallows, and stands, his one peg leg forcing him to stand partially off-balance. Somehow, he's more scared to go in through this door than he ever was marching into war. He walks through the door and into a hallway, a bright, sterile white that almost makes his eyes hurt. Doors line the walls, although only one is open. His steps are hesitant as he approaches, peeking into the room to make sure he has the right one. Inside, an IceWing is reclined on a plushy armchair, reading some papers. Glasses rest on her nose, a pair with square frames that remind him of the ones his partner used to have. The memory's too painful for him, and he brushes it away. The IceWing's curled up in the chair, not sitting professionally. It makes her look small, like a child; her legs are tucked up beneath her. He coughs a little, wondering how to walk in. She hears this, and glances up with a wide smile. He can see her teeth, and it unnerves him. "Welcome in!" He can't stop seeing the glint of her teeth in the light of the candle before her. She looks wicked; the candlelight throws its flickering flames into her lenses and makes it look as if she was a demon. But she pushes her glasses up to rest on her forehead and the vision's gone. Hallucinating again, he thinks. "I'm Jasmine." So this is her. His therapists. He takes a moment to observe her again before answering, his war-built reflexes kicking in. Her scales are colored in shades of pale purple- that's the most he can tell. She has lanterns behind her, casting her in shadow. The only thing that illuminates Jasmine in the candle before her, although he assumes that he must well-lit enough for her to tell what he looks like. He shifts his wooden leg self-consciously. "My name is Barnacle," he finally mumbles. She smiles at him again. Three moons, those teeth. She terrifies him, yet also emanates a sense of security. He looks away, taking in the room. It's covered in soft pillows in various dark tones. She's painted the walls, he assumes, or someone else did, because they're not the same sterile white as everything else in this building. Instead, they're a rich brown shade, like dirt. She's tried to make the room feel more comforting. He glances back at Jasmine. She's slipped her glasses back down to glance at the paper again. "What's on that thing?" It's probably his file, written down in the doctor's sloppy hand. He takes advantage of her distraction to study her again. She'd be pretty, he supposed. A bit chubby and soft from sitting around all day, but she carries an aura of sophistication. Two purple gems dangle on silver chains, decorating her ears. They're probably fake. No one has the money after the war to be spending money on jewels. When she looks up again to smile (how does she keep smiling like that?) she asks him a question that he really doesn't want to answer- "What are we going to discuss today?" She knows. He's sure she knows exactly why he's here. But she leans forward, propping her glasses back onto her forehead, awaiting his response. He hadn't noticed earlier because of the darkness, but now he can see- her eyes seem almost like living flames themselves. It's because of the candle, obviously, she's leaning closer, so the flame is closer to her eyes. But he could've sworn her eyes must have been a pale yellow that doesn't seem to match the rest of her calm purples. She blinks and the fire's gone. Her eyes are just pale, seeming bleached of all color and emotion. Ignore it, he tells himself. With a clearing of his throat, Barnacle starts to speak in a halting manner. ---- behavior A SkyWing slouches in her chair, bouncing her knee restlessly. Her fingers tap out an uneven rhythm on the scratched wooden arm of the chair. "What's keeping her?" She wonders aloud to no one. The receptionist barely glances up to look at her. He's used to her talking to no one by this point. It seems like forever until the door opens and an anxious-looking SeaWing limps out, his peg leg thunking dully on the carpeted floor. Jasmine herself pokes her head through the door to see the SkyWing. Her face lights up into a smile. "Estrildid!" Estrildid's still not used to seeing Jasmine out of her little cozy cave, thrown into the harsh lights of the waiting room. It makes her scales stand out as the polished gems they are. Jasmine retreats back into the corridor quickly, and Estrildid stands to join her. Jasmine's tucked up into her chair again, her glasses back over her eyes and she's reading something. Again. She's always reading something. The SkyWing ignores the armchair that most sit in, the one angled to face Jasmine without being directly in front of her, and makes for the sofa at the end of the room, plopping into it with a sigh. Her head rests on a fuzzy purple pillow. It's hard to find something that's not purple or brown in Jasmine's room. Without being prompted, she starts to ramble, staring at the ceiling. "Life's been harassing me, I swear. I keep dreaming about it. I see everyone dead, their throats slit and their blood drowns me. It's so annoying. I keep trying to stay awake to sacrifice an hour of dreams. It's not working. The medications don't do anything." She plays with the fur on the pillow absently. While she was talking, Jasmine had pulled her chair over to the sofa, taking notes in a notebook. Estrildid rubs her eyes tiredly, the shadows under them darker than normal. Jasmine is quiet, knowing that the SkyWing rarely shut up until she actually prompted the other person to speak, and often she'd gloss over that and go on again. "... I hate it so much. Those stupid SandWings dragging everyone into their goddamned war. Why can't they just keep it to themselves? I keep seeing them. My mom, my sister, all of them. Throats slit and burnt to a crisp." At this point she pauses and looks at Jasmine, clearly waiting for her to say something smart and therapist-y. Jasmine's pen doodled idly as she starts to talk, Estrildid listening in rapt attention that she rarely gave anyone else. "How long has this been going on?" Her voice is gentle, caring. It was easy to see why Jasmine was a highly sought-after therapist after a few sessions. She's professional and smooth and kind wrapped up together. Estrildid looks away. She isn't the type to drop her gaze first, but Jasmine gives off enough of an assured aura to convince her that Jasmine wouldn't turn away first. Estrildid sighs, her muscles relaxing. She likes it here. ---- Barnacle's tension has never released from his shoulders through the many meetings he's had with Jasmine. She terrifies him, yet he can't turn away. She is deadly nightshade, beautiful and deadly. He wants to leave, wants to ask to be reassigned to someone else, but she's there in his mind, every time he considers switching. Whispering to him, telling him that she is the only one that would listen, and everyone else would on the surface, but despises him inside, disgusted by his weakness. She's never told him this aloud, but the meaning was clear in her words. Hissing being every smile. She sent him pitying looks, each one whispering you are weak. you are weak and I am the only one that will ever listen to you. She knows he is alone, with no family or friends to speak of, and she made herself the only one in his life. Jasmine flashes him a smile, one that looks like a baring of teeth in his hallucinations. He can't see what was real anymore, dreams and hallucinations melded with reality. "Don't listen to them, Barnacle. Don't listen to your dreams. They are just remnants of your fear. I am here, and I will listen when others do not." She murmurs gently. Her voice sounds distorted, his mind playing tricks on him and making it into a growl, monstrous. She smiles again, the gleam of her teeth piercing through the haze of his mind. "Have another biscuit." She practically shoves the tin towards him, urging him to eat. He took one and started chewing mechanically, another wave of nausea coming as he swallows. "No one wants to listen but me," she was saying. Was it a dream or a reality? "I'm transferring you to another therapist. My work is complete." Another smile. How does she keep doing that? He stood, but he wasn't sure why until she lightly pushes him towards the door. "Our session is over." He walks out like the robot she'd made him into. ---- "Barnacle died last night. Suicide" Jasmine's face is hard as she received the news from her fellow therapist, the one that Barnacle had been reassigned to. "I thought you might want know." The SandWing shifts her weight from foot to foot. Jasmine nods, impassive, but the bitterness in her eyes sends a crueler message for the observant. It was your fault, it whispers. You had sessions with him. It wasn't me. Jasmine turned and walks off, strolling back into her little cove. It was there, hidden from the light of the candles, that she allows herself to smile. Glancing back at her notepad, she flips open to an inconspicuous page of clients that would've been overlooked normally. His name is crossed off with a flourish of purple ink. She retches, the guilt finally catching up to her, and flees to the bathroom connected to her room, trying to claw out the ache she felt after taking this poor man's life. ---- history bkjfhgofhd i dont know how to write this part *have her talk to her own therapist??? *talk about camellia in more detail Jasmine stands over the sink in her bathroom, her appointment over. They made her delve deeper into her history than she had in years- and considering how she hasn't dug into her past at all the last fifteen years, it wasn't that far. Her teeth bite so hard into her lower lip, and she hisses, a hateful sound. It soon disintegrates to quiet sobbing. She’s never gotten over her parents’ death. And especially not Camellia’s death. Camellia has been a spring bud, not cold and frigid like all other IceWings, but warm and loving. Being forced to remember it hurts. She grits her teeth. Pull yourself together, Jaz. The nickname she still calls herself hurts the most. Camellia used to call her that. She presses her talons into the soft flesh of her palms. The pain helps a little. When had she started to find release in pain? It helps temporarily, but not for a long time. Not the long lasting relief that one of her clients’ suicide would bring. It settled her heart, knowing that one of her parents’- Camellia’s murderers may have been killed by her hand, and she would’ve had her revenge. When had that started? She remembers it well. That itching feeling under her scales that started about a year in. She wanted to claw all of her scales off- or preferably, one of her clients’. She wanted to help them, she did, but the desire to destroy them was stronger. She started dreaming. Dreaming of ripping them all to shreds, their blood warm on her fingers as they bled out underneath her from her talons. And she smiled. It horrified her and brought her the most peace she'd known since their deaths. Every time she looked at a client they were hollow, chest pierced and bleeding from multiple wounds; dying. She loved it and was disgusted by it, and it tore her apart. Days passed as her performance fell. She took days off that she couldn't afford to. Her mental state was wrecked, and someone with their own issues isn't the best to help another work through theirs. So she worked through it. Developed her own method to cope. She plants seeds of doubt, of self-loathing, until they do the deed themselves. Her hands are clean. But she's smart enough to understand that someone would realize that something's up if any client she took died. She'd be fired, at best. Instead of encouraging all of them to suicide, she chooses wisely. Occasionally the perfect target will turn up. No family or friends. Alone in the world. She makes herself indispensable. Starts encouraging death. Drugs them. Whatever they need. Then she reassigns them. Throws anyone suspicious off the track. Makes it someone else’s fault for their death. And it’s worked. So far. She feels guilty doing it, and after. But it also feels good. It helps. And they deserve it. All war veterans with more blood on their hands than on hers. And besides, she helps everyone else. And that’s a lot of people. It balances out, right? trivia *left handed *loves tea *terrible handwriting *fairly intelligent *terrible eyesight *loves wearing jewelry, but doesn’t do it in the office *favorite color is purple gallery !! coloring by martin!]]Category:Characters] Category:Work In Progress Category:Content (ForestFire28) Category:Females Category:Occupation (Other) Category:IceWings Category:Mature Content